Red Herring
by Hane no Zaia
Summary: In which Red left the circus for London and met not Mana but a wiseacre street urchin keen on puns and quoting Oliver Twist, a trio of underlings, and eventually the Millennium Earl, who is undeniably intrigued.
1. The Earl and the Urchin

_I don't really know what to say. I think the summary pretty much describes it. I'll just leave it here and see what becomes of it._

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**The Earl and the Urchin**

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"_Information on the location of either is worth half a shilling."_

"_How recent are we talking?"_

"_Three months."_

"_They were both here last month, but I haven't seen or heard of them since."_

"_Are you certain?"_

"_Unlike some, I've got a good memory for faces."_

"_Do you know where they went?"_

"_That depends on how much the info's worth to you."_

"_Two shillings."_

"_Cheap."_

"_Five."_

"_Do you really want to find these people?"_

"_Ten."_

"_Why?"_

"_You might call it a casual interest."_

"_Is that all?"_

"_Is it not enough for you?"_

"_It looks like a lot of money for so little effort."_

"_Looks can be deceiving."_

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Looks could indeed be deceiving.

Despite hating Innocence and humanity in general, the Millennium Earl had an admitted soft spot for children. Particularly those destitute but resourceful, that had not been coddled or spoiled rotten by well-meaning elders, appealed to his tastes. It was hardly more than a passing interest though, one that often ended in some small act of charity before the recipient disappeared from both sight and mind.

This one was different though, the Earl privately supposed; to the extent that 'peculiar' might even be considered applicable.

The first time that the Earl had laid eyes upon him was during the winter of the previous year. It had been at the scene of a fatal accident. Even though said accident had managed to draw quite a bit of a crowd, the Earl had taken note of the youth standing close to the scene, holding back a clearly distraught but mostly quiet comrade.

There had been something about the youth's expression that had made him pause; a deadpan kind of look that proved deceptive when the youth ‒ acutely aware of his brief scrutiny ‒ abruptly shifted his attention from the battered body on the cobblestones to the Earl where he stood, and levelled his human appearance with a look that was so cold that it proved searing.

Searing or not however, the look had only been maintained for as long as it took the Earl's coachman to reach him with the news that local law enforcements would ensure that the mess would be taken care of and that they would be able to continue onward without much delay.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

That second time had been that very night, when the grief of the distraught boy from before had summoned the Earl to him. However, before the Earl had managed to even make his presence known and way before a deal could even be made, the youth from before had turned up with another youth in a tow, addressing the bereaved in a tone that was as hard and as flat as the look that accompanied it.

"Bates, if Artie saw you now, he'd want to kick your arse. Hell, like this, even Wisely could kick your arse."

_Wisely_. That definitely piqued the Earl's interest, and when the group left, he made careful note of their respective appearances.

The boy called Bates was quickly passed over in favour of the two that proved all the more intriguing.

The one called Wisely had messy brown hair and looked to be both the tallest and the eldest out of the bunch. However, he was obviously deferring to the shorter youth whose hair was similarly messy but definitely had some red to it, and presumably also more of it beneath all that dirt.

Again, as if somehow sensing his scrutiny, the leader of the pack snapped his head around, silver-grey eyes snapping to the darkened corner wherein he had concealed himself, remaining there long enough for the Earl's interest not to wane.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

The third time had been in the early spring, when the boy called Bates ‒ whose full name was apparently Charley Bates ‒ had tried and failed to get away with picking the Earl's pocket.

Surprisingly, the Earl had found that he recognised him, and his curiosity regarding the fate of the other two had him drag the sputtering Bates off into an empty alleyway rather than to the appropriate authorities. As expected, his enquiry regarding the others was met with some amount of confusion, one that was swiftly followed by suspicion and obstinate silence.

Though sorely tempted to try other more forceful means, the Earl had forced himself to remain patient. He hauled out his pouch, withdrawing about a guinea's worth of shillings and presenting it before the aspiring pickpocket. Said pickpocket in turn looked like he had never seen so much money in his entire life, which may or may not actually have been the case. "A sign of my goodwill, Mr. Bates."

The boy had obviously been startled by the familiarity and remained wary, though there was the underlying hint of desperation hidden in his eyes; an underlying desperation that would no doubt undermine what stubborn resistance still remained if the right reassurances were given.

Providing said assurances, the Earl had been granted a brief account that indeed, the others were still alive. However, there was obvious hesitance in admitting that they were both well, for reasons that would become apparent to him later that night, when the redheaded leader of the group both figuratively and literally descended upon his doorstep; it was actually Sheril Camelot's doorstep, but when it all came down to it, that was a mere question of semantics.

Either way, since the child had actually gone through the effort of climbing a tall wrought iron fence as opposed to waiting outside of the gates, the Earl figured that he might as well find out what they wanted.

"Good evening."

Out in the dark, silver-grey eyes narrowed in response to his greeting.

"What can I do for you, child?" the Earl eventually proceeded, and the eyes remained narrow.

"You can take your charity and go to Hell," the boy finally snapped, stepping forth and into the light escaping from the open doorway in which the Earl himself stood.

"Charity, is it?" he commented, taking a step forward himself and shutting the door partially behind him, eyeing the pouch held out towards him.

When he didn't take it immediately, a look of considerable exasperation crossed the child's face; it remained perfectly visible to him even in the relative lack of light.

There was a beat of silence as the child shifted his posture slightly, apparently coming to a decision.

In the moment that followed, the Earl readily caught the pouch lobbed at him.

"Make sure that the sum's right," the boy instructed, his voice clipped. "If Charley's lying, then I'll bloody throttle him."

The Earl opened up the pouch, pouring out its contents into the cup of his palm. "And why is that, pray tell?"

The eyes continued watching him and coldly at that. "Because I don't feel like owing you anything."

"So," the Earl proceeded. "As per my understanding of your logic, stolen money is perfectly acceptable, whilst given money is not?"

A positively withering look was sent his way, but he hardly paid it any heed. "One shilling's gone."

The narrowed eyes widened a fraction and were then averted, glaring darkly into the distance. "That goddamned _twat_…"

Noting the word but making no comment, the Earl proceeded to pour the money back into the pouch. "If charity is no good, then you may consider it blood money if you like."

The eyes widened slightly and then narrowed, but they were still staring off into the distance. "It was Artie's cockiness and stupidity that got him killed, with some help from your coach," the boy then proceeded, turning his head to look at him. "He was too busy celebrating his latest catch to pay attention to the road ahead."

"Even so, a human life is a human life," the Earl countered, regarding him closely. "Isn't it worth at least one shilling?"

He actually earned himself a small chuckle at that; the first sign of amusement ‒ albeit wry ‒ that he had up until then observed.

"You're only worth as much as you can give," the boy scoffed. "And if you give nothing, you get nothing."

The _"And then you are nothing"_ was heavily implied, but remained unsaid.

"Give and take, is it?"

There was a mild shrug in response. "I'll have your shilling tomorrow evening at the latest," the boy said, obviously ready for imminent departure. "Then we're even."

"And if I'd be willing to settle the debt in some other way?"

The boy stiffened at that. "If you touch me, I'll kill you."

Oh?

The boy shifted his posture slightly, levelling him with a look that was anything but warm. "And I'm not giving you Wisely either, even if he's a smartarse, or Charley, even if he's a twit," the boy said, remaining tense and obviously wary. "And I'm not touching you either," he then added, with all the more venom to it.

Oh. "I can assure you that I make no habit out of assaulting children."

The look sent his way informed him of just how little weight his assurance carried. "You've got more money than you could ever need and no need for a pickpocket, and besides that and my body, there'd be nothing that I have that you could possibly want."

"And if my wish is to trade the money owed for information that only you can provide?"

There was a brief pause during which something changed, and something beyond that of mere distrust glimmered in the boy's eyes; a calculating look, almost. "And what information would that be?"

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Red Herring was the name of the clever waif that gained the brunt of the Earl's interest, the leader of a small gang of street urchins. There were five of them in total, ranging in-between the ages thirteen and sixteen, though they had started out as three.

Jack, Charley and Tom were the youngest, but had stayed together since their mutual agreement to ditch the workhouse.

Back then, Jack had been the leader of their little group, seeing that he had been deemed the most cunning. However, he had been ousted from both positions with the inclusion of the gang's senior members, first from his position of leadership by Red and then from his position as the most cunning by Wiseacre Wisely Cunningham, aptly baptised as such by Red due to being an insufferable smartarse.

In return, Wisely, who unlike the rest of them could read quite well and had no qualms about showing off, bestowed the rest of them with some last names for the sake of irony. Thus, Jack became Jack Dawkins, Charley became Charley Bates, and Tom became Tom Chitling, aptly named so after some of the characters in Wisely's favourite novel. Red was in turn bestowed with the surname Herring after rolling his eyes at the argument regarding which of them would be better suited for the name Oliver Twist.

Apparently, Red had then declared that Wisely, despite being the oldest and the tallest of them, was also the meekest in the bunch and the least adapted to his surroundings, and that as such, he was the best suited for bearing the name. Wisely himself on the other hand argued that even Oliver Twist could throw a mean punch if the situation called for it, to which the others conceded with the reservation that Red would still be able to kick his arse, because that much went without saying. Red was not the leader for nothing after all.

Wisely might've been sixteen and almost two years Red's senior, but Wisely himself wasn't even ashamed to agree when the other's commented that he wasn't even an eighth of the fighter that Red was. Then again, Red ‒ whoever he had been before joining the gang about four years prior ‒ was in a class of his own, as Jack, Charley and Tom had come to discover firsthand and rather painfully at that.

They were five. With the sudden departure of Jack "the Artful Dodger" Dawkins to the afterlife as opposed to Australia, they were now four.

Soon, there would be only two.

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	2. The Week in Whitechapel

_Damn it, I was supposed to analyse grammar yet ended up in London's late 1880s.  
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_Oh well, you got a continuation out of the deal. It's short, but it's something, right?  
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**The Week in Whitechapel**

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London was a dirty town, filled with people who were dirty either on the outside or on the inside, and occasionally even both. And as far as people went, Red had seen them all; at the very least in passing. As for how many of those people who'd seen him, that was another question altogether.

In the end, what people saw, heard and in general perceived was heavily reliant upon the way that they'd been raised and toward which ideology they'd been taught to adhere; that was what Wisely would say, that bloody wiseacre.

Of course, Red could very much agree that the way in which people had been raised definitely played its part in how they viewed the world and how they viewed the things and the people in it. He knew this without having to use fancy vocabulary such as philosophy and ideology and philanthropy and whatnot.

One wiseacre in the group was enough, and Wisely was more than qualified to fulfil the part. Artie might've given him a run for his money, but Artie was‒ Artie was technically speaking six feet deep into the earth but they ‒ well, Wisely and Red at any rate ‒ liked to joke about him having gone down under ‒ to Australia, that is.

Of course, they usually joked about it when none of the others were present. They were all pretty jaded, but there are degrees of world-weariness. Wisely and Red were at the higher end of the spectrum, in addition to being the type ill-humoured enough to make subtle jokes about it.

More often than not however, Wisely was engrossed in his latest reading material and quoting it whilst attempting to appear educated, all whilst Red settled into silent contemplation whenever he was not running about London with the others, picking people's pockets or acting as a decoy while others did. Wisely also helped on occasion, but more often than not, he was the tactician while Red was both the leader and the prime enforcer.

All in all, this was probably the sole reason as to why Wisely was still in the gang despite his evident lack of fighting prowess and endurance for anything but short distance flights. Besides, there was also the fact that he had an inherent clumsiness to him and an unfortunate tendency to stumble on his own feet. Wisely kept insisting that it was the shoes' fault, but in the end, it was all the same anyway.

As of late, they'd taken up residence over in Whitechapel in the small rundown apartment of a forty-something woman who was apparently Tom's aunt or something, a prostitute and one out of many in the area; it was Whitechapel after all.

"How's Tom?"

Tom wasn't great. According to the quack that they'd dragged out there just the other day, he had consumption or tuberculosis or whatever they called it. Red didn't need to know a whole lot of fancy words to tell that it was bad; when people started coughing up blood, it was usually pretty bad.

"How's Tom?" Wisely repeated from his chair over by the fireplace and threw a look in the direction of the room containing the bedridden sod before looking towards Red, who was only just arriving back from his latest hunt. "Still highly contagious, I'm afraid."

"So is Charley's stupidity," Red drawled, pulling a chair from over by the tiny kitchen table to join Wisely over by the hearth.

Wisely's eyes flickered to him briefly before he returned to the book and was once again engrossed. Red noted the look but didn't respond, staring into the glowing embers. Over in the other room, the incessant coughing began anew and they exchanged a brief look before each of them returned to their previous activity.

"So?" Wisely said at last, marking the page before slamming the book shut. "Who's got infected? You?"

Red didn't dignify that with a response, taking the poker and stirring the embers. "I'm not the one keeping the sick guy company," he said at last.

A slight smirk spread across Wisely's features. "I'll be more probable to catch my death out there in the cold than indoors by the hearth. Besides, by now we're all probably infected so if it breaks out, it breaks out."

"A little spring air won't kill you," Red offered somewhat charitably.

"Nah, but the smog in it might," Wisely sniggered.

They both grew quiet as there was a slight croak from the back room, leading them to exchange a slightly wide-eyed look before they both narrowed their eyes a fraction. Red got up first, poker in hand and everything. Wisely got up moments later, still armed with the thick tome he'd been reading. Soon, they were in the back room with a wheezing Tom who was sickly pale and covered in sweat and blankets and occasionally seemed to have something blocking his airways.

"Well, that can't be good," Wisely piped up from behind Red who stood stock-still just a metre or so away from the bed as Tom's wheezing breath once again caught. "We should just‒"

Abandoning the poker, Red closed in on the distance that lay between them and the patient, pulling Tom up from the mattress and forcing him onto his stomach into a position leaning over the edge of the bed. Then, he struck him in the back, first once and then twice more. A wet and disgusting sound later, whatever had been choking Tom was now on the floor by the bed. Despite everything, Wisely crept closer to take a closer look as Red put the other back into the bed to rest on his side, readjusting the blankets while he was at it. "What _is_ that?"

Red didn't dignify it with as much as a look as he stepped past it on his way to the door. "Who gives a fuck?"

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That night, when Charley was firmly out for the count and the aunt was out working, they found themselves discussing their options.

"So?"

It was dark and they were seated beneath the window, speaking quietly in order not to be overheard.

"Will you smother him with the pillow or should I do it?"

Red scoffed in response, but Wisely was undeterred.

"The quack's already said that it's terminal, so what's the damn point?" he insisted. "Besides, Madam Smith's already taken out a life insurance on him."

"Once he's dead, there's no real reason for her to keep us," Red retorted, because that was equally true. "If she'd think she could pull a Fagin on us, then she would've done so already."

"Maybe she's plotting to kill us?" Wisely suggested, just a tad too cheerfully. "Like that woman, you know, that arsenic woman, what's her name… Marianne something?"

"Mary Ann Cotton." Red resisted a sudden urge to roll his eyes, knowing well what awaited him now as Wisey broke out into humming.

"_Mary Ann Cotton, she's dead and she's rotten, lying in bed with her eyes wide open…"_

Wisely looked at him expectantly. Red wilfully ignored him.

"Aw, come on, Red, don't be such a fermented fish."

Red resisted the evident urge to elbow him in the side of his ribcage. Instead, he got up. "I'm going out."

"You're going out _now_?"

"Now," Red readily affirmed, moving with ease in the dark as he went to fetch his shoes.

"It's in the middle of the night though," Wisely intoned as he moved to do the same.

"Then stay here," Red offered, pulling on his tattered coat.

"With these contagious little buggers? No way."

Red honestly didn't bother arguing about it.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

"_Mary Ann Cotton, she's dead and she's rotten, lying in bed with her eyes wide open…"_

"_Sing, sing. What song should I sing? Mary Ann Cotton's tied up with string…"_

"_Where? Where? She's up in the air, and they're selling puddings for a penny pair…"_

Wisely grew quiet once more but continued humming.

Red rolled his eyes and picked up his pace as they moved through the fog.

For being in the beginning of April, it was somewhat colder than usual, but with all the humidity in the air, it was probably just that.

"Come on, Red Herring, it's your turn to sing now."

Red didn't have to dignify that with a response. Still‒ "Wisely, if your incessant singing gets us discovered and hauled over to the workhouse, then I'm not breaking you out with me."

"Come on, just once."

He considered it briefly. "Will it make you shut up?"

"Definitely," Wisely quipped, a tad too amusedly. "And if we've both gotten infected, then I'll be able to die happily."

"You morbid twat," Red scoffed in return.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

"_Mary Ann Cotton, she's dead and she's rotten, lying in bed with her eyes wide open…"_

The sound of his boyish voice reverberated against the brick walls, carried off and onwards along with tiny droplets of fog.

"_Sing, sing. What song should I sing? Mary Ann Cotton's tied up with string…"_

He drew for more air to finish the travesty but paused midway, picking up on the sound of footsteps trudging their way.

Loud as he might've been prior to this, Wisely instantly grew quiet and followed Red into the shadows. He did seem somewhat hesitant however as Red then began moving for where the street they were on met Osborn Street, towards the noise rather than away from it.

After fighting a brief battle with himself though, Wisely opted for what seemed natural and followed right along, joining Red over by the corner and peeking out at the foggy scenery of Osborn Street. "What is it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Do you see anything?"

Red didn't answer and in the end, he didn't need to answer as Wisely saw them too and stiffened.

"Isn't that‒?"

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

History knew her as Emma Elizabeth Smith, a widowed woman approaching forty-five years of age and the first prostitute to be killed in what became known as the Whitechapel murders. Some would come to attribute her murder to the notorious Jack the Ripper, although it would be deemed unlikely by the scholars that came afterwards. Records would describe her as a woman shrouded in mystery who supposedly had a son and daughter living somewhere near Finsbury Park. Unknown to most though, she also had a nephew named Thomas but who went by the name Tom.

She was viciously assaulted in the early hours of the morning of Tuesday 3rd of April 1888, at the junction of Osborn Street and Brick Lane in Whitechapel.

"She said that she'd been attacked by two or three men, one of them just a boy," Wisely dutifully repeated to the duty surgeon over at the London Hospital, Dr. Something Hillier.

"She didn't know them," Annie from the lodging house next-door filled in, nodding seriously. "It was just pure luck that her boys got worried and decided to go look for her."

The good doctor looked from one boy to the other, no doubt noting their tattered appearance. "And you saw nothing?" he concluded, half to himself and half to them.

"Nothing," Red responded, looking back at the man for a whole second before averting his eyes, decidedly uncomfortable. "It was foggy."

Wisely nodded in agreement, forcing the good doctor to turn back to Annie and to the deputy keeper of the lodging house, Mrs. Russell. "Was it?"

Everyone nodded.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

Three days later, on April 6th, the police got involved in the matter and launched a major investigation.

By that time, Madam Smith had already been dead for two days and her nephew, Thomas, had already been dead for three.

-o-O-o-o0o-o-O-o-

"Did it have rabies?"

Red stared at his hand and at the fresh bite there, largely impassive and indifferent to the fact that Wisely was holding onto it.

"I'll lick it," the older boy graciously offered.

Red wrinkled his nose, pulling his hand from the other's grip. "Gross."

Wisely snorted. "Hey, which one's more gross ‒ my spit or an infection?"

Red gave a somewhat dismissive wave, his hand hurting but none of it seeping into his facial expression. "I'd rather have a cat's germs than yours."

"Really?" Wisely looked vaguely offended. "Well, suit yourself then."

April 7th ended with no further incident. The same really couldn't be said about the days that followed.

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End file.
